


Don't Remind Me

by korik



Series: A Dissertation in Memories [8]
Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America (Comics), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Fluff and Angst, New York City, his city is not his own, if I am not careful this will be another collection, she never calls him Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:24:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1347358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korik/pseuds/korik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by some shopping I did yesterday evening, a documentary on New York from about a week ago, and as a result, my Nat's James/Winter Soldier so you'll see a bit more of personal headcanon for both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Remind Me

His face practically purples, a strange mix of anger, and grief, and there’s a momentary sharp twinge in her hand as his fingers snap like a bear trap.

"ow - James -"

He fumbles, face draining of its color, “I-I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

A shake of her red hair, her brow in stitches as she tries to touch his face as he tries to examine her hand, a tangle of limbs, “No, of course not, just a pinch; James - why such a face?”

The long dark hair shades his eyes as he persists, and she relents to his insistence, knowing he won’t feel better about it until he looks himself. It was his metal hand after all, and in that arm that can rip his own flesh should he push it too far has bruised, fractured, splintered, _shattered_ others.

Oddly, his voice is barely above a whisper, lips trembling. “Canal Street? It’s so…it’s unlike anything I remember - I mean -” between each finger he looks, curls each joint carefully with medical precision tempered by the shiver of fear, tentative touches like the feather dusting of a moth as he hunts for the damage he seems to think, or want to believe, is there, ” - it was a _ditch_ when I was a kid - a train ran - “

Her shoulders stiffen, and this time he doesn’t try to snatch her hand back when she slides her hands to curl around his head in the middle of the busy New York sidewalk, tangling her fingertips with the shaggy mane he has kept, the envy of more than a few female friends.

Into her chest he sinks, nuzzling past the artificial wool with its dark curls of intertwining modern plastics, to her silken shirt and the slow rise and fall of her chest, resting between her breasts against the bone with his mouth and nose where he knows there is a blackened lace pattern to match her underwear, a smattering of threads with color.

There isn’t much she can say to him, she has had the mocking glory of being _awake_ while the world altered, building its skyscrapers and fighting its little wars for space and time, money and prestige. She has been able to come to terms with the strange temporary state of the world, and has learned to let go before it broke her heart.

A blink of her eyes, lashes darkened with the light layer of mascara she uses to perhaps imitate the lashes he was born with catching in the gem-studded light display of New York, she nuzzles in his hair as she catches his voice like a desperate plea -

"Don’t you go anywhere; don’t leave me, Nat, please."


End file.
